


woke up on the wrong side of reality

by doctorkilljoy



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe, Angst, Attempted Murder, Blood and Gore, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Homophobia, Hospitalization, Injury Recovery, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-02-10 04:37:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12904206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkilljoy/pseuds/doctorkilljoy
Summary: During the Believers Never Die Part Deux tour, Patrick is having a tough time. His band is falling apart, the fans have turned on them, and every day feels like a trial by fire. Until one night, a traumatic event occurs, and Patrick's life is changed forever.This work has been abandoned.





	1. Murder

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been in my head ever since I heard Young and Menace. It's meant to be a sort of catharsis for me, and hopefully has the desired effect. Please be aware the first chapter does have graphic violence, and there will be later chapters that deal with emotional problems and unhealthy mindsets. Tags will be added as the story progresses, so please be sure to check them before reading new chapters. If needed I will post additional warnings in the introduction of each chapter. I will also take a few liberties in regards to medical treatments and recovery as this does explore a few areas of the medical field I'm not overly familiar with and have had difficulty researching. 
> 
> I will attempt to update either once a week or once every two weeks, most likely on Sundays as that seems to be when I have the most free time. Bear in mind this work is not beta read. 
> 
> Many thanks to [SnitchesAndTalkers](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/pseuds/SnitchesAndTalkers), [Das_verloren_Kind](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Das_verlorene_Kind/pseuds/Das_verlorene_Kind), and [PlatinumAndPercocet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PlatinumAndPercocet/pseuds/PlatinumAndPercocet) who have been listening to me be weird for the past few months while I try to work this out. 
> 
> Title is from _Young and Menace_ by Fall Out Boy

“I love you!” The girl screamed as he walked away, and Patrick did his best not to laugh. She loved the idea of him, they all did. If any of them knew who Patrick was as a person, they wouldn't love him. They wouldn't despise him either, but they wouldn't love him. Perhaps they could even be friends, but he wasn't so sure about that. He wasn't sure about anything on this tour.

Folie sales had not been promising, and there had been people booing any time they played the new material. Pete tried to shield him from it, say that they just didn't understand and would come to love the album in time. But that hadn't proved true on tour. Patrick was grateful however for the die hards, the kids who defended the album and said it was some of Fall Out Boy’s best work. They made the tour bearable.

He was glad it was nearly over. The nights were starting to blur together, in a constant cycle of doubt and ever lowering self esteem. It was getting to the point where Patrick would gladly sleep for the rest of his life, if it meant he didn't have to go on stage again. It was a game of Russian roulette; would the crowd love him that night, or hate him?

It never seemed to bother the others, especially not Pete. But Patrick, while he could handle constructive criticism (despite what some people said) was very sensitive to outright hatred. And this was what it felt like, hate. That they'd tried to do something different with this album, and so many of the fans didn't want that. They wanted the old Fall Out Boy.

He wished he could tell them the old Fall Out Boy wasn't coming back. They were all growing and changing, as people and as artists. Wasn't that supposed to be a good thing? After all, David Bowie changed his style and sound with every album, and no one ever complained that he didn't sound like the old David Bowie.

Whatever, at least at the end of the tour there was a break to look forward to, and Patrick was going to spend as much of it in his pajamas as possible. He was exhausted, and wanted to spend some time reconnecting with his roots. Really getting to know himself again.

Patrick headed towards the buses, having to weave through the virtual city of cars, trucks, and trailers that was involved in this tour. They'd brought so much equipment with them, and Patrick was sure that the whole tour must have cost a pretty penny. The label was paying, but they'd take the price out of the album sales. Since Folie wasn't selling well, they'd never see a cent of the money from it. It all went into the Fall Out Boy machine.

He twisted his lips at that, the whole thing left a sour taste in his mouth. Sometimes he envied the indie artists, who didn't have to answer to label reps and A&R people and management and publicists and God knows who else. They had to have meetings three or four times a week so they'd be caught up on the business of Fall Out Boy.

Pete handled a majority of it. He was the face of the band, not to mention so intricately entwined in the business side of things that nothing could get done without his approval. While Patrick sometimes envied his control business wise, he didn't want it for himself. There's no way that Patrick could have handled it. He couldn't even handle being a frontman, at least not really.

Even back when they were first starting, Patrick’s stage fright didn't allow him to open his mouth. At least if he wasn't singing. And Pete was so much better looking, it seemed only natural to have him take over frontman duties. Everyone loved him, he was the perfect combination of the tragic poet and the mischievous prankster. Pete was magnetic… Patrick knew that, it was what made him agree to be in Fall Out Boy in the first place.

He was so lost in thought, he didn't realize he was actually lost until he passed the same red trailer for the third time in a row. Patrick pursed his lips, a bit annoyed. He really needed to pay more attention and stop thinking about the past. But he couldn't help himself. The past wasn't haunting him so much as begging to be lived again. Well, not by Patrick, by the fans. And maybe to some extent, Pete.

Patrick got his bearings, then headed in the right direction. In another ten minutes he’d be safe on the bus, hiding in the studio in the back. He thought perhaps he could work on the new song he'd been fiddling with. It certainly wasn't a Fall Out Boy sound, but Patrick just couldn't let it go. It was enticing to him.

His thoughts were still on the song, when he ran into someone so hard he nearly fell over.

“Oh shit!” Patrick said as he righted himself. “I'm so sorry, I wasn't really watching--”

“Hey man, it’s cool,” the man said.

Patrick looked up, and recognized him as one of the techs who worked on Patrick’s guitars. He was new this tour, and while Patrick hadn't talked to him much, he knew his name was Mike and he was from LA. Patrick gave him a small smile and said, “Uh, hey, good work tonight.”

“Yeah man, you too,” Mike said. “You know, those kids don't appreciate you.”

“Uh… Come again?” Patrick asked.

“That stuff you guys wrote on the new album’s brilliant, especially yours. The intricacy of the melodies and the guitars alone is stuff that real musicians can only dream of.” Mike looked like he was smiling, but there was something… Off about it. More like he was baring his teeth.

“Uh, thanks. We worked really hard on it.” Patrick tried to move past him, but Mike blocked his way.

“I'm in a band you know,” said Mike. He was getting closer to Patrick, and it was making him nervous. What was this guy’s deal?

“Oh yeah?” He looked around. He didn't see anyone else coming, and he didn't see a way to get past Mike. At least not without shoving him. And Patrick didn't want to do that. He was huge, and Patrick, while he'd put on more weight recently, was still a pretty small person.

“Yeah, we’re called 666 Academy. We had kind of a theme going with devilish school uniforms. Bit old for it now,” Mike laughed. It was true, Patrick could tell that Mike was probably in his mid forties at best. He continued, “We thought we were gonna be the next KISS, you know? We did the whole routine, moved to LA, played all the right gigs, went to all the right parties, met all the right people. But we never took off, not like you guys.”

“That’s… Uh, that’s a shame,” Patrick said. He didn't know what else to say. Mike was giving him the creeps and he just wanted to go back to the bus.

Mike advanced, and Patrick took two steps back. “We wanted to make a difference, and hell the money and fame wouldn't have hurt either. But we were never good enough.” His voice changed, to a snobby high pitched tone. “You're not what we’re looking for at the moment. Metal bands are a dime a dozen these days.”

Patrick could kind of understand that. If this guy was as old as Patrick thought he was, he would have been in LA in the 80s. When you couldn't throw a rock without hitting a metal band, or at least that's what Patrick’s father used to say. “That sucks,” Patrick said. God would he never get away from this guy? He was getting out of “scared” territory and now more into “pissed off”.

“It does suck. We couldn't hold a candle to the pretty boys, none of us were lookers. Not like you kids. And we didn't have the talent to make that a non issue. We were never good enough, no matter how hard we worked. We were always gonna be mediocre. So I started taking gigs like this one to pay the bills, because fuck knows our music isn't paying them,” Mike said. “And you fucking kids, especially you… You're some pretty boy. But you got the looks AND the talent. It ain't fair.”

“Hey,” Patrick said, angry now. “I know it doesn't look like it on your end, but we did work hard to get where we are. I’m sure you guys did too, but it doesn't mean that you're better than us or we’re better than you. Sometimes it pays off, sometimes it doesn't. That’s fucking life.” He was standing up straighter now and looking Mike in the eye. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I wanna work on some tracks before bus call.”

Mike looked at him, and for a moment, Patrick thought for sure he was going to punch him. He could hear Pete and Andy approaching, not too far off judging from Pete’s laughter. Mike seemed to hear it too, and he stepped aside to let Patrick walk past.

He tried to keep his relief to himself, and gladly stepped past the tech. But then suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Patrick tried to turn his head, but the other hand went under his chin, pulling his head back. He yelled, “What are you doing?!” And then he felt pain.

It was hot and sharp, and went across his neck. He didn't know what was happening, until he felt a warm gush of liquid going down his front. Patrick tried to swallow, but he couldn't. His hands went to his neck, and he could feel the blood rushing out. He told himself mentally, ‘Don't look down.’ As though that could change what had happened.

He fell over, and he felt other hands on him. He could hear screaming, someone calling for an ambulance. It was Pete, and Patrick’s last thoughts were how that roadie had just fucking killed him. And that he didn't want Pete to see this.


	2. Hospital

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are again! So this week has sucked incredibly, but hopefully it'll get better. I want to thank everyone who's been leaving kudos and comments, I really appreciate it. Also I have changed the rating of the fic due to the content of some later chapters. 
> 
> Okay let's sink a bit deeper into our suffering, shall we?

He didn’t have any real thoughts when he regained consciousness. For the most part, he felt pain. He saw there were a lot of bright lights, white walls… A hospital, he guessed. A face staring at him, but something he couldn’t hear. Then it was dark again, and the pain stopped, at least for a little time. Patrick thought he might have dreamed.  
  
When Patrick woke up again the pain was worse. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t open his mouth. He couldn’t move, but he wanted to. His vision was blurry. Of course it was, he thought, he wasn't wearing his glasses. But this was more blurriness than usual.  
  
It was dim in the room, but not dark. There was a light on over his head, but on a low setting. Patrick tried to lift himself up, but another slash of pain went through him. It got worse when he whimpered. He couldn’t remember… Why was he in this room? Why did he hurt so much? Was there something wrong with him? And what was that beeping sound?  
  
Then it came back to him in a flood. That roadie, the blood… He looked down at his hands, but they were clean. He gingerly touched his throat, and found thick bandages there. Patrick could feel something under them, something that hurt and itched. He didn’t like it, it felt wrong. He wanted to cry out. But every time he tried a flash of pain went through him.  
  
Patrick tried to calm himself down, taking several breaths. He was in a hospital, and still alive. He’d thought that people couldn’t survive having their throat cut. He was wrong, unless this was a specific version of hell. He hoped that wasn’t the case. Patrick wasn’t an angel.  Yet he didn’t think he’d been bad enough to deserve hell.  
  
Then again how would he know for sure?  
  
He took in his surroundings. Though his vision was still blurry, he could see someone in the room. Patrick reached out, trying to make some kind of noise. It was enough to rouse whoever it was. A light came on, and Patrick tried to groan.  It only resulted in more pain.  
  
The figure came closer. He was relieved to see it was Pete.  
  
“Patrick?” He croaked. He sounded like he’d been crying. He took Patrick’s hand and squeezed it. Then all of a sudden he let go and ran out of the room. Patrick wanted to call him back. But he was afraid of the pain if he tried.  
  
Pete came back with a woman in scrubs trailing behind him. “He’s awake!” Said Pete.  
  
“Yes, thank you Mr. Wentz,” the woman replied. She wheeled in a cart with some equpiment. Patrick didn't know what it was.  
  
“Mr. Stump, you’ve had a throat injury.  I don’t want you to talk. But I need to gauge your responses, so please blink once for yes and twice for no. Do you understand me?”  
  
Patrick blinked once.  
  
“Thank you. Do you know where you are?”  
  
Patrick blinked once.  
  
“Thank you. Are you having pain?”  
  
Patrick blinked once.  
  
“Thank you.” And on the questions went. He was able to communicate that he knew what happened to him. That he knew what year it was, and what city the hospital was in. She took his vitals, and said that she would send the doctor in immediately. Once she was gone, Pete was hovering at Patrick’s side.  
  
“We almost lost you,” Pete said. His voice was unusually quiet. He looked… Heartbroken, and Patrick wished that he could give him a hug. Pete looked as though he were about to cry. He kept talking.  
  
“The guy, what’s his name? I don’t fucking remember what it is. But he stabbed himself in the chest after he… Did that, to you. Died on the scene. Guess it’s a good thing because he never would have made it to trial.” There was a dark growl in Pete’s voice as he said the last sentence. “I wish he wasn’t dead, I wanna fucking kill him! He fucking… Oh God Patrick you fucking died!”  
  
Pete collapsed in the chair next to the bed. He took Patrick’s hand, his own was shaking. Patrick did his best to squeeze it, but his grip was pretty weak. It was killing Patrick to see him like this. Pete was so upset it made his chest hurt.  
  
“They’ll only let one person in here at a time, and not for long. They’re gonna kick me out soon. But your mom’s on the way right now, your dad’s gonna get the next flight out. I haven’t heard back from your brother yet but we’re still trying. Mark’s headed this way too. And Andy and Joe are out in the waiting room. They wanna see you.” Pete was babbling now. Under normal circumstances his would be when Patrick would tell him to calm down. But he couldn’t this time.  
  
The doctor arrived, followed by the woman from before. He was tall with dark hair, and sort of reminded him of Ryland Blackinton. But this man was much older than Ryland, and he looked like a grim sort. “Good evening Mr. Stump,” he said, then looked at Pete. “I understand that Mr. Wentz is your emergency contact. However, I’m about to go over sensitive medical information.  Do you want him here?”  
  
Patrick blinked twice.  
  
“Very well,” the doctor replied. He had the same clip board the woman, he assumed the nurse, had earlier. He moved closer to the bed, and loomed over Patrick. “I’m Dr. Quaid, I’ll be overseeing your care. You’ve suffered a severe laceration to your throat. You’ve lost a lot of blood. But we’ve managed to close the wounds to your jugular and carotid. There was also significant damage to your voice box. You won’t be able to speak for some time.”  
  
He paused, as if to let Patrick absorb it all. Pete was looking at the doctor as though he were afraid; Patrick couldn’t blame him. He wanted to ask what that would do to his singing. The doctor addressed that next.   
  
“I understand that you're a professional singer.  I should tell you now there is a chance this injury will affect your singing voice. As it stands, I have no way of determining how or for how long. We’ll have to wait and see how your recovery progresses. Then we can develop a proper treatment plan. “  
  
The doctor put the clipboard down, and looked Patrick in the eye. Pete was clutching his hand, and Patrick tried to pull it away. Pete seemed to realize he was hurting Patrick, and eased his grip.

“You're going to be in ICU for quite some time. We will need to perform cognitive tests on you, as life functions did stop during surgery. Your brain was without oxygen for approximately one minute. We’re taking all precautions to make sure there is no brain damage. The important thing now is that you rest.”

Patrick didn't know how to respond. Pete hadn't been dramatic, Patrick had actually died. The doctor was still talking, but Patrick couldn't follow all the words. He heard things like drug regimen, physical therapy, and the like. But he couldn't listen anymore.

He'd died…. But he was here now, so it didn’t matter. Or maybe it did, he didn’t know. Part of him was elated, the rest was terrified. Had it really been so close? He came back to himself long enough to see that the doctor was leaving, along with the nurse. Once they had gone, Patrick looked at Pete.

“He said you’re gonna be in ICU long enough to make sure your brain isn’t gonna melt. Then they’ll move you to another room. Also that you’re stable so he’s upping your pain meds.” Pete was crying, but he was also smiling. “It’s a fucking miracle, man. I just… I’m so glad you’re still here. You’re my best friend and I love you more than anyone. I want you to know that.”

Pete stood, and tried to hug Patrick. He was glad he wasn’t expected to hug back, as he wasn’t sure that he’d want to anyway. Pete said something, but he couldn't hear it. Patrick felt a feather soft kiss on his forehead. He closed his eyes, savoring the sensation. And then the lights were out, and he heard footsteps. The door opened and closed, and Patrick was alone in his room.

Patrick was relieved. Between what the doctor had said, and how Pete was feeling and behaving… He wasn’t sure he could handle anything else. He needed a few moments, or perhaps a few months, to come to grips with things.

He was almost murdered by some jealous fuck that Patrick had perhaps said four or fives sentences to. He couldn’t talk, and wouldn’t be able to for a long time. And Pete was a mess.

And it got worse. Despite the crying and carrying on, Patrick knew that Pete was trying to hold it together. Or at least as well as he could for Patrick's sake. He’d seen Pete’s reactions to other situations. They were much lower on the drama scale, and he’d howled and screamed like a banshee. Patrick wanted to take care of him, but in the same breath, he also wanted to stay away from him.

When the nurse returned, he was glad for the IV injection. He could feel the drugs swirling in his system. And Patrick was grateful for the wave of blackness that swept over him. He wished that he could sleep through the next few months. Patrick knew they would only get worse from here.


	3. Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again. The holiday season is a fucking nightmare and I hate it. But I made it, and here we have a new chapter. Enjoy.

It was late, or early, Patrick wasn’t sure. He’d been in and out of sleep, and sometimes Pete was there, often times he wasn’t. But the next time he was fully conscious, it was to see Pete, Joe, and Andy next to his bed. He’d been having terrible dreams, but he couldn’t remember what they were. He felt an overwhelming sensation of relief when he saw his whole band there. 

Andy smiled, reaching over and pushing Patrick’s hair away from his face. “Hey, buddy.” 

“I’m so fucking glad to see you’re alive,” Joe said. “When Pete said you came back from the dead I thought he was being mental.” 

“Hey fuck you! The doctor confirmed it!” Pete was glaring at Joe, who shrugged. 

“You get carried away with shit. I can’t be blamed for doubting your word.” 

Patrick wanted to reach up and hug them but found it was difficult to raise his arms. He did, however, manage to tap his wrist with his finger. Too many nights of vocal rest were enough for the band to recognize it. Patrick never learned ASL, but he did have his own language of signals he used. 

“It’s six AM,” Andy told him. “Your mom should be here in a few hours.” 

He wondered why she was taking so long. It wasn’t that far from Chicago, was it? 

Joe seemed to sense the question on Patrick’s mind. He said, “Her plane had to make an unscheduled stop and got held over in Dallas. She should get here the same time as your dad.” 

He nodded and managed a smile. The room was quiet, and awkward for several moments. No one seemed to know what to say, or at least no one who could speak did. Patrick had plenty to say, but the pain in his throat was awful. And he didn’t want to damage his voice even more. 

The strain was visible on them. Joe was never one to smile all the time, but he looked grim. Andy’s body was tense like a bowstring. Patrick wasn’t sure he’d ever seen him stand up so straight. All three had stubble and dark circles under their eyes. Patrick was sure that they hadn’t slept a wink, and his heart ached for them. They were exhausted and scared, and it was because of Patrick. It made Patrick feel conflicted. On the one hand, he was happy to see how much they cared. On the other, he was sad that they were suffering.

Andy said, “Pete told us that you died.”

“Does this make Patrick Jesus?” Joe asked, and Andy and Pete looked at him with surprise. Patrick would have laughed if he could have. “What? Isn’t that how it works? He's back from the dead right? He should get to be Jesus now.” 

“People come back from the dead all the time. It doesn’t mean they’re the Messiah,” Pete said to him. 

“That’s actually pretty funny coming from you. Since you act like the sun shines out of Patrick’s ass,” Joe pointed out. Which made Andy laugh. 

“I don’t think Patrick’s the second coming through.” Pete was frowning at Joe.

Andy chimed in, “You kind of do. Have you heard how you talk about Patrick?”

“We fight all the time!” 

“I’m sure that Jesus and Judas had a lot of arguments too,” said Andy, and Joe smirked. 

“Hey, I am not about to betray Patrick! And fuck both of you!” 

Patrick watched them bicker, and be stupid as usual. It had worn on him before. But now… It was endearing. He wished he could tell them. Instead, he sighed. He was getting so tired again already. He registered that someone was talking to him. But Patrick let his eyes close. It was the drugs, it had to be. 

He heard footsteps and knew that they were leaving. Someone squeezed his hand. It might have been Andy). And someone hugged him. It smelled like Joe. Patrick couldn’t open his eyes, but he did manage a smile. 

He felt more awake later in the day. With the unfortunate side effect that he was better able to feel pain. And he got a sudden awakening when the door burst open and his mother came in. She looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks, and she rushed right to Patrick’s side. He could tell she wanted to hug him, but with all the IV lines and wires, she didn’t dare. That was when Patrick realized that Pete, Joe, and Andy were gone.   
   
“Oh my poor baby,” she said. “How are you Patrick honey?”  
   
His eyebrows knit in frustration. Of course, he couldn’t answer her.  She seemed to realize this mistake at once, and said, “Your father is coming now. The doctor says it’s all right for you to have more visitors. Pete’s at the airport now. He's getting Kevin.”  
   
The door opened again, and his father appeared. He wasn’t the turbulent mess his mother was. But Patrick could tell he was strained. Something that Patrick had in common with his Dad. They both preferred to keep their emotions to themselves.  
   
He went to the other side of the bed. He was looking at the machines that Patrick was hooked up to. As though he had any idea what the readings on them meant. He then looked down at Patrick and touched his hair. An affectionate gesture that he hadn’t made in years. For a moment, Patrick was relieved.  
   
Patrick wished he could talk. He could tell his mother was getting close to becoming hysterical. He reached a hand out to her. She grasped it with both of hers. “Patrick, I was so scared, I thought for sure that we would lose you. I’m so happy you’re alive.” It made Patrick cringe.  
   
“Patricia,” his father said, his voice low. “Please stop, you’re making him uncomfortable.”  
   
“How would you know?” She shot back, glaring at him.  
   
“Because you’re making me uncomfortable,” he replied. It made Patrick cringed.  
   
“Do you really think now is a good time for this David?” His mom asked.  
   
His father didn’t reply, but he did look as though he’d like very much to leave. Patrick couldn’t blame him. Mom went on about how she was feeling and how terrified she was. Patrick let her hold his hand and listened in silence. Dad had taken a seat on the other side of the bed, and would sometimes offer a comment. Whenever he did, Mom would shoot him a vicious look. And he’d fall silent again.  
   
Patrick couldn’t understand why. Their relationship had never been perfect after the divorce. But they didn’t outright hate each other. Why on Earth was she acting this way? He assumed it was the circumstances. Patrick imagined if he had a child and they’d almost been murdered by a psychopath... He’d be pretty upset too. He could let it slide, but she was starting to wear him out.  
   
Patrick was toying with the idea of faking sleep. But then the doors opened a third time and Kevin came in, followed by Pete. He was so relieved to see them he smiled. Kevin went to Mom’s side and hugged her. Then leaned over the bed and hugged Patrick as best he could. He then went to the other side and hugged Dad.  
   
“Kevin, you made it,” Patricia said, looking relieved.  
   
“Yeah, Mom. Sorry, I’m late it was hell getting a flight out of O’Hare.” Kevin smiled at Patrick. “You don’t look as bad as Pete said you did.”  
   
That made Patrick snort. But then he winced as it did hurt his throat. Pete made a face, mock offended. “I said he looked amazing!”  
   
“You said he looked amazing for someone who survived a murder,” Kevin replied.  
   
Pete put his hands on his hips, mock offended. “I’ll have you know every inch of that statement is true.”  
   
Kevin laughed at that and shook his head. Mom squeezed Patrick’s hand, and he thought she’d be mad at Kevin. Instead, she looked…  Not happy, but maybe glad.  
   
“Don’t worry baby bro. You’re only sort of hideous,” Kevin teased, and Patrick smiled. This was what he needed right now. He needed his mind off of the fear and pain. He was glad Kevin could see that.  
   
Pete went up to Patrick, hiding something behind his back. “I’ve got a present for you.”  
   
“Hey, he’s not on solid foods!” Kevin said, and Pete rolled his eyes.  
   
He pulled out a dry erase board. “The doc says you can use this to talk when you’re feeling better.” The board was bright pink with horrible fluffy feather trim and shiny fake jewels. Kevin laughed when he saw it, and Patrick rolled his eyes.  
   
“What? It's pretty!” Pete asked, looking around the room.   
   
“Patrick’s gonna kill you later,” Kevin said, and his Mom frowned.  
   
“Don’t joke about that!” She hissed, and Kevin winced.  
   
“Sorry, Mom.”  
   
Patrick wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. Kevin was helping some, but Patrick was still feeling raw. It was from his mom’s outpouring of grief. He wasn’t dead, why did she have to talk about this right now?  
   
Pete seemed to sense something was going on. Pete said, “We should clear out. I know Patrick hasn’t slept much.”  
   
“I’m surprised you’re not volunteering to be his security blanket,” Kevin teased. Pete smirked.  
   
“Doc said no way,” he replied.  
   
Mom and Dad were both getting up. She leaned over and kissed his forehead and both her cheeks, saying, “I love you my baby boy.” Dad gently touched his face and didn’t say anything. They left with Kevin.  Pete stayed behind for a moment.  
   
He put the whiteboard on the bedside table. He muttered, “I’ll keep them occupied and out of your hair, at least until you feel better. Okay?”  
   
Patrick nodded, and Pete smiled and stood up straight. “Later Lunchbox.” And then Patrick was alone again.  
   
He was grateful for it. He wasn’t sure how he was going to handle seeing Joe or Andy if they were in any condition like his Mom. He could understand why she was upset. But it wore him out. She behaved as though this had happened to her instead of Patrick.  
   
Patrick knew he was being unfair. It was probably because he was so tired. He closed his eyes and did his best to fall back to sleep.


	4. Heartbreak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hate myself for this one. But to be fair to myself, this is based on a real event and it's something I've needed to get off my chest for a long time. This chapter's a bit on the short side, I'm afraid. 
> 
> And I'm not posting on December 31st because I'm going to be out all day so sorry for the delay. In the meantime, here we go again.

He didn’t sleep, not in any way that counted. The drugs made him drowsy, and he would lie still with his eyes closed. But instead of true sleep, he was caught in that state between dreams and full waking. He’d startle at the slightest noise, and tonight was no exception. He assumed it was the nurse coming to check on him, as she did every hour. But then he heard a soft, “Oh Patrick.”

It took a lot of effort to open his eyes. High cheekbones, red hair, posh clothes, and tall. Much taller than Patrick. He would know that gorgeous face anywhere, and relief washed over him. It was Mark. Patrick would have hugged him and pulled him in for a slow kiss if only he could have gotten up. Mark had been placing something on the bedside table, and Patrick frowned a bit. He picked up the whiteboard, and wrote, “When did you get in?”

“This morning,” Mark replied and leaned over Patrick. He hoped for a kiss on the lips but instead received a kiss on his forehead. That made him frown further.

‘What’s wrong?’ Patrick wrote.

“I was leaving this for you, I’d hoped that I could be out before you woke up.” Mark removed the envelope from the bedside and handed it to Patrick. He turned to leave, but Patrick caught his wrist and shook his head. “You’ll want me gone when you read that,” Mark told him.

He opened the envelope, and read. It rambled quite a bit, but Patrick got the gist of it within the first paragraph. He put the letter down and wrote on his whiteboard. ‘You’re leaving me?’

“It’s the best thing for us,” Mark replied. “This relationship hasn’t been going anywhere, Patrick. We’re not compatible, we never really were. I mean, why do you think I didn’t want to move in with you? I’ve been trying to think of a way to let you down easy but I couldn’t find one.”

‘How long have you felt this way?’

“For ages,” Mark told him. He sighed and sat down, pushing his hair back from his face. “I’m sorry Patrick. I know this is a bad time, but I can’t pretend to feel more than I do. And you need support from people who actually love you.”

That cut Patrick to the quick. Had Mark been pretending this whole time? He felt tears stinging his eyes, but he bit his lower lip, not wanting to cry. He wrote, ‘I don’t understand.’ And in truth, he didn’t. He thought they’d been happy. Perhaps not deliriously so, but happy enough.

“Do you really want me to do this now?” Mark asked, sitting up.

Patrick erased the board, then wrote one simple word. ‘Why?’

Mark sighed. “Fine. Look, Patrick, you’re great. You’re crazy talented, you’re sweet, a great boyfriend. But I’m not attracted to you anymore. You’re getting fat, and you’re so clingy! I feel like I can’t breathe around you anymore! You’re smothering me.”

The door flew open, and in walked Andy. He frowned, asking, “Mark? What are you doing here? I thought you said you changed your mind.”

“I changed it back,” Mark replied as though he hadn't broken

Patrick was in tears. His worst fear had come to pass. Mark not only didn’t love him, he thought Patrick was ugly and needy. And now Andy was here and saw him crying and he was so fucking embarrassed…

Andy moved closer and looked from Patrick to Mark. He frowned at Mark and asked, “What did you do?”

“I was only being honest with him,” Mark told Andy.

“You… Get out!” Andy said, grabbing Mark by the scruff of the neck. He pulled him into a standing position and shoved. It was awkward, as Mark was taller than him. But that didn't stop Andy. “Get the fuck out of here or I’ll break your fucking neck!” He shoved him out the door and said, “If you come back here, you’re dead! Do you hear me?!”

Patrick cringed. He’d never seen Andy so angry before. When he came back towards Patrick, he flinched. Andy immediately relaxed, saying, “I’m sorry Patrick. I didn’t mean to scare you. Pete asked me to check in on you while he’s meeting with the label.” He sat in the chair Mark had occupied and frowned at the letter in Patrick’s hand.

‘He left me,’ Patrick wrote on the board and handed the letter to Andy. He read it, then crumpled it up and tossed it aside.

“That vain selfish prick,” said Andy. He looked at Patrick. “Ignore him. You’re too fucking good for him, you always were.”

That didn’t stop the tears from rolling down his face. He wrote, ‘He said he’s not attracted to me anymore. If I’m too good for him then why did he dump me?’

“Because he’s an asshole.” Andy took Patrick’s hand and squeezed it. “Look, I know this hurts, and I’m not gonna tell you to ignore it because this is gonna hurt. But don’t mourn for a relationship with a guy who cared more about his hair than he did about you.”

Patrick was still crying, and he wiped the board. He wrote, ‘Why didn’t you say anything before?’

“Wasn’t my place,” said Andy.

‘Wish you had.’ Patrick put the board aside, then lay back in bed. His throat burned, but not with pain. He wanted to rage, carry on like a madman. Like Pete whenever his relationships ended. But he'd used up all his energy, and his eyelids felt heavy. He was asleep before he knew it, trapped in waking dreams. And he dreamed about Mark.

Patrick always knew that Mark was out of his league. From the moment he met him. Mark was refined, cultured, and stylish. He was known as a model, but his family was from the wealthy New York elite. Patrick never did find out where the Sanderson fortune came from. He'd never cared

He was enchanted with Mark, and they’d talked for hours about music. Or at least Patrick had talked. He had sometimes wondered what it was that Mark saw in him. He was drop-dead gorgeous and Patrick was average at best. Short, chubby, and losing his hair in his mid-twenties. He was a giant nerd and he could never measure up in physical beauty. But for a while, he was convinced that didn’t matter.

Their first meeting had been at some fancy art gallery that Pete had dragged him to. Patrick had felt out of place. And watching Pete work a room, while interesting, wasn’t his thing. He was wearing tight clothes that were uncomfortable, shoes that hurt his feet, and a "trendy" hat he didn't like. Pete had insisted on because “it matches”. Though matched what, Patrick didn’t know. It sure wasn’t the shiny jacket Pete had thrust on him.

Even dreaming about that outfit made him feel uncomfortable. It hadn’t been him at all. But Pete had wanted to dress him up and show him off. Pete’s way of doing that was making him go to a party he didn’t want to go to. And then abandoning Patrick to talk to his snotty art friends.

Patrick had retreated to a corner, holding a glass wine he wasn’t drinking, when he saw Mark. He was tall, slim, and impeccably dressed. He designer jeans, a soft shirt, and a gray waistcoat. His hair was a bit messy, that just rolled out of bed look that Patrick could never pull off. He was circling the party, and when he saw Patrick, he smiled.

He knew he’d blushed from the roots of his hair down to his neck.

The dream changed, and it wasn’t the art party anymore. Instead, it was his house, the first time that Mark had spent the night. Patrick had felt self-conscious going to bed with him. It was hard not to when the person he would be sleeping with was paid to be gorgeous. But he’d eased Patrick’s fears, assuring him that he was beautiful. That Mark wanted to make love to him. He’d woken up the next morning, curled up with Mark and toying with his pendant.

He’d called it his trademark, the pendant. It was an old coin that had a hole drilled into it and a ring through it. Mark wore it on a leather cord around his neck and said it brought luck. “But what is it?” Patrick had asked that morning.

Mark had smiled, his plump lips so red from their making out only minutes before. He took the necklace off and handed it to Patrick, saying, “It’s an Athenian coin. The owl on one side and the woman on the other are for Athena, that’s how you know where it’s from. They’re considered one of the more common coins available today. Athens was the largest city, and so they made the most coins.”

“It must be valuable though since it’s ancient,” Patrick said. “And you made it into a necklace?”

He’d laughed, and kissed Patrick. He could feel the sheets against his bare legs. In the dream, they weren’t the soft and silky ones he favored in his home. They were the thin, scratchy ones from the hospital. Patrick was still dreaming of Mark holding him. But he could also hear Andy talking low to someone, and it was a bizarre contrast.

Patrick wanted to wake up. What good was it, dreaming about Mark now? Mark was gone. Mark had left him because Patrick wasn’t good enough, no matter what Andy said. Mike should have just killed him, it would have been easier to die. The physical and emotional pain was like barbed wire twisting around his heart. For the first time in his life, Patrick cried himself awake.

 


	5. Police

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to 2018! So it's been the New Year for about a week and seems like it's the same old bullshit going on as always. Anyway, here's the new chapter. I'm sick today and staying in bed. Also, I'm switching to a biweekly posting schedule as I like having an extra week to fine tune chapters and write new ones. Sorry for the delay but it's necessary to keep the story going. I highly recommend subscribing so as not to miss anything.

Patrick’s stay in the hospital was starting to become routine. It killed him that this was going to be his life for the foreseeable future. Every morning he was woken by a nurse. They would take his temperature and blood pressure, then ask him how his pain was. He’d indicate how he was feeling, and they would note it on his chart and leave.

Shortly after breakfast would arrive. It was usually some sort of jello as he wasn’t allowed solid foods. The doctor would stop by shortly after breakfast to give him an update on his treatment plan. Then his parents and brother would visit for a few hours. Until Pete, Joe, and Andy came at lunchtime.

Then his family would leave, and his band would stay the rest of the afternoon. Patrick wished he could stop his family from coming at all. His mother was still having hysterics and his father’s rather grim outlook on things was making it worse. They were fighting almost constantly. However, instead of yelling and screaming at each other they would hiss in low tones. Which somehow made it worse. Kevin would break up the fights but they would start again within the hour.

Thank God for his bandmates. They didn’t confess their grief (the glaring exception being Pete the night of the incident), or blame anyone, or dredge up past issues. Instead, they seemed determined to keep his mind off of things. Joe was the best at it, as his dry sense of humor cheered Patrick up. Pete would act silly, and Andy would sometimes read to them from whichever book he’d picked up from the gift shop.

They were also giving him updates on the outside world. Pete said his mother was threatening to come out and nurse Patrick herself, which Patrick shuddered at. His mom and Pete’s mom in the same room was horrifying. They would treat him like an infant.

The tour had been canceled, of course. Though Cobra Starship and All Time Low had both offered to keep going for the fans. But in the end, the label had called off the whole thing. The crew were compensated, and everyone was sent home. Pete had said that Gabe and Victoria had been hanging around a lot, asking to see him. Patrick had begged off. Gabe Saporta was difficult enough to handle anyway. Even when he was feeling well.

It was several days later when Patrick was informed the police wanted to speak with him. Patrick frowned and wrote, ‘Why?’

“They said they need a statement to close the case,” Joe said.

Pete frowned. “He’s still in the fucking hospital! Fuck knows when he’s getting out of the ICU!”

“Believe me, our lawyers made that very clear,” Andy pointed out. “But they still want to talk to him while his memory is fresh.”

“We need a lawyer here. Like, now. When are the cops gonna be here?” Pete asked.

‘Why do I need a lawyer?’ Patrick asked.

“Never fucking talk to the cops without a lawyer. Especially if you’re innocent,” Pete replied.

“What? That doesn’t make any sense,” said Andy, but Joe shook his head.

“No, Pete’s right. Even with Patrick being the victim we should have a lawyer present. I mean dude, we’re famous, they may like, try to say Patrick killed the guy and then cut his own throat.”

Andy snorted. “Pete and I were witnesses; we already gave our statements to the cops.”

“They could say you guys were lying to protect him,” Joe pointed out.

Patrick wrote, ‘You’re watching too many conspiracy shows.’

“Regardless, we need to get a lawyer down here. I’m gonna make some calls,” said Pete, and he stepped out of the room.

Sometimes, Patrick forgot exactly how efficient Pete could be. He had two lawyers down there within the hour, both of whom would be sitting in on the official statement. Patrick would have to write it out, word for word, and he wasn’t looking forward to that. Even worse, his bandmates weren’t allowed in the room with him.

Patrick wanted to plead with them to stay. But it had already been explained to him that as Pete and Andy were witnesses, they weren't allowed to be present. Patrick wondered why the hell they were allowed to visit him in the hospital then but had the sense not to ask that question. He didn’t want them to stop.

One of the lawyers, an older woman with silver hair named Kim, was taking lead. She looked like a grandmother, but she had an air about her that gave the distinct impression she was not to be crossed. With her was a very skinny young man named Jake, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

The detectives arrived fifteen minutes after his friends left. They didn’t look how Patrick expected them to. He couldn’t have thought of a more mismatched pair. But he could admit to himself he watched too much _Law and Order_.

One was a man who introduced himself as Detective McCullough. He had a bulbous nose that reminded Patrick of a potato. He was dressed in a button-down and jeans with cowboy boots. He looked like someone who bought bullets in bulk at Walmart.

The other was a woman who had black hair and said she was Detective Adela Watson but to please call her Addy. Her entire outfit from the pants suit and ankle boots to the button up shirt was black. Patrick would have bet a million dollars she wore black lipstick and dog collars in her downtime.

The lawyers sat on the right side of Patrick’s bed. The detectives on the left. Patrick’s bed was up so he was in an upright position. He looked first at the lawyers, then the detectives.

“We have some questions about the night you were assaulted,” Detective McCullough said.

“We just want to go over the details with you,” Addy said. She had a pen and paper in hand, which she passed to Patrick. “Write down everything you can remember, please.”

Kim lowered the rail on her side and pushed the little side table over so it was above his lap. Patrick looked at her, and she nodded. He then started writing.

It took him a while, as he kept having to pause when he lost his train of thought. It was happening often, as he was on a hell of a lot of painkillers. That he didn’t fall asleep and hit his head on the table was a miracle. He’d regain his focus and go back to writing. When he was finally finished, he looked up at the clock. It had already been an hour.

Before Patrick could hand the paper to the detectives, Kim snatched it out of his hands. She looked it over, eyebrow arched. Detective McCullough was scowling, while Addy seemed to be indifferent. Kim nodded and handed the paper to Addy.

She looked it over, while McCullough read over her shoulder. He looked up and asked, “And that’s all?”

Patrick nodded but reached for his dry erase board. Jake was kind enough to hand to him along with the marker. Addy saw the bright pink with fuzz, and Patrick could tell she was trying not to laugh. Patrick couldn’t blame her, and he hated Pete for his garish choice.

‘Yes, that’s all,’ he wrote.

“And you had no prior contact with Mike Meegan before his attempt on your life?” McCullough asked.

‘I saw him but never spoke with him.’

Addy was writing it all down, but then she asked, “So his motive was jealousy?”

Patrick shrugged. ‘That’s what it sounded like.’

“And you’re sure you never spoke with him before that?” McCullough asked. “Anything at all?”

“What exactly are you implying?” Kim asked, her eyes narrowed.

“A man with no record and no history of violence. And he tries to kill an unarmed man half his age and half his size? It doesn’t make any sense,” he replied.

Seeming to sense that this was the wrong tactic, Addy interrupted him. “We want to make sure there’s nothing we missed. ”

Kim, however, didn’t appear to be fooled. “Our client is cooperating. And I think it best you keep in mind he was a victim of an unprovoked attack.”

“And are you so sure your client didn’t say anything to him? Maybe didn’t act inappropriately towards him?” McCullough asked, glaring at Patrick.

He was becoming confused. He hadn’t talked to Mike before, why was this guy suddenly so keen to prove he had?

“Inappropriate how?” Kim inquired. She looked pretty pissed.

“We all know your client is interested in men. How do we know he didn’t say something or do something to him? Perhaps he propositioned him.”

You could have heard a pin drop in the room. With the exception of the machines Patrick was hooked up to, no one made a sound. Kim looked enraged, Jake looked frightened, and Addy shot a disgusted look at her partner. Patrick didn’t know what to say to that. If he weren’t being mute and heavily medicated, there would have been screaming.

Kim spoke first.“You’re accusing our client of making sexual advances towards the man who tried to murder him?” Her voice was deadly calm.

“We’re not saying that,” Addy said, glaring at her partner.

“We have to cover all the bases!” McCullough insisted.

Patrick wanted to cry. At a time when his sexuality should be the absolute least of anyone’s concerns, it was brought up against him. He wrote on the dry erase board, ‘I didn’t do anything to him or with him.’

“I think that's quite enough,” Kim said. “Out, both of you. If you have any further questions for my client you can address them to me directly.”

McCullough looked ready to argue, but Addy closed her notebook and stood, saying, “Of course. I’m very sorry.” She then gestured to her partner.

He didn't say anything in return, but he did follower her out of the room.

Kim was livid as she said, “I’m going to call that damned lieutenant this instant.” And she walked out.

The last remaining person was Jake. He didn't say anything, but he did move the table back to its previous location. He then handed Patrick a box of tissues and left immediately.

Patrick did cry then when he was alone.


	6. Depression

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Mania release! I hope everyone's enjoying it as much as I am. So an extra warning, this chapter deals with depressive thoughts, intrusive thoughts, and existential questions. It's stuff I've gone through myself and I'm trying to write it out. If any of those things bother you I would advise skipping this chapter. Otherwise, read on.

He knew he was dreaming when he saw the sunlight. It was a perfect gold, something it rarely was in real life. He was in the back of a limo, and the windows were rolled down. A warm breeze brushed his cheeks, and he said, “Today was perfect.”  
  
He felt someone nuzzle him, and Patrick reached up to run his fingers through their hair. “Tonight’s gonna be even better.”  
  
Patrick laughed and turned. He couldn’t see the person’s face, but he was grinning. “I’m so glad I married you,” he muttered and kissed them.  
  
He woke up and wanted to cry. He'd been in the hospital for several weeks, and he had recently moved out of the ICU. He'd been sent to a regular unit for monitoring. The doctors told Patrick that due to the nature of the injury, he wouldn’t be released until they could guarantee his safety from infection.  
  
Being moved out of the ICU meant that he could spend more time with his family, which he wasn’t happy about. But it also meant that his band could hang around more too. He was grateful his mother and father weren’t snapping at each other anymore, but he still didn’t want them around. He’d also had the good sense not to tell his parents or brother what happened with the police.  
  
Kim had informed him that she would have Detective McCullough removed from the investigation. His feelings about Patrick’s sexuality were quite clear. “It’s a conflict of interest and shows he can’t do his due diligence in the investigation,” was what she’d said. Patrick didn’t care, so long as he never had to talk to the detective again.  
  
Unfortunately, Pete had found out what happened. It took Joe’s wisdom and Andy’s physical strength to keep Pete from actually going down to the precinct and beating the detective to death.  
  
“I’m gonna kill that homophobic motherfucker!” He’d yelled as Andy restrained him.  
  
“Pete knock it off. Look the guy’s gonna be off the case so who fucking cares what he thinks?” Joe said, rolling his eyes.  
  
“HE SAID PATRICK’S A FUCKING LIAR! And a fucking sexual deviant! I’m gonna kill him!” Pete was struggling hard against Andy. Who despite his size was stronger than all three of them combined.  
  
Patrick picked up his board and wrote, ‘Pete please stop.’  
  
Pete looked over, read what Patrick wrote, and stopped struggling. Andy put him down so that he could go to Patrick’s bedside. He gripped Patrick’s hand and said, “I’m sorry, I’m pissed that he’d treat you like that.”  
  
‘It happens,’ Patrick wrote.  
  
That had been yesterday. But after the dream, Patrick had requested that the nurse tell everyone he was too exhausted for visitors. He didn’t want them around, not when the pain was so fresh. While he was grateful that they were showing their support and their love, they were wearing him out.  
  
Between his mother and Pete, Patrick was starting to feel like he wasn’t getting any rest. He was healing, which was good. But the constant company was wearing on him, and he couldn’t exactly confide in anyone, not when he couldn’t even talk. It wasn’t in his nature anyway.  
  
He knew his thoughts were taking a dark turn, and he wasn’t sure what or even if anything could be done about it. The dream hadn’t helped. Who would marry him now? He likely wouldn’t be able to sing anymore, and even with his other musical talents that was still quite the blow. And Mark was gone; Patrick had pictured a future with him, but Mark felt differently.  
  
No one would want him like this. He wasn’t gorgeous like Pete, or funny like Joe, or smart like Andy. Patrick was… Himself. That wasn’t good enough even when he was whole. Now he was missing his voice, and he was sure that no one would want him. He wished he could have convinced Mark not to leave him.  
  
He curled up on his side and stared out the window. It was actually a lovely view, with a park across the street. Patrick could see kids playing, and his heart ached. He’d thought, maybe in another year or two, he and Mark could adopt. Patrick wanted to be married; he wanted kids, the picket fence, a dog, the whole package. He wouldn’t get that now.  
  
Patrick lost his one redeeming quality. He was fat, balding, awkward, and though not as bad as in his teen years, he had a temper. He dressed like a nerd and was a loser in anyone’s eyes. He thought perhaps Mark could see something worthwhile in him. Until Mark handed him that letter. Now Patrick was calling everything into question.  
  
Mark left when Patrick needed him the most, how long until everyone did? His family, his friends, Pete… Patrick was surprised that they were even still around. Patrick’s only use at that point seemed to be listening to others talk about how horrible this was for them. That was why he was so tired, and he didn’t know how much longer he could put up with it.  
  
And what about when he started to talk? What would happen then? When he allowed himself to grieve for the life he had, the one that was over now. What would they say to that? Would they listen and support him? Or would they be like Mark, and once his usefulness ran out, leave him as well? As annoying as his family and bandmates could be, he wasn’t sure he could take that.  
  
He didn’t tell anyone how he felt, as he didn’t want their useless platitudes. Or, in Pete’s case, various threats against Mark, Detective McCullough, or Mike the dead man. It didn’t matter to Patrick. He wasn’t sure that it mattered anyway, as there were other questions that were gnawing at him.  
  
Patrick had literally died. If things had gone differently, he’d likely be six feet under now. But they hadn’t, and he was here. And his life was ruined on top of it. He started to think he’d be better off if he were dead. At least then he wouldn’t feel so guilty.  
  
That was something else he couldn’t talk about, not without hearing empty words about how wrong he was. What about all the people who didn’t make it, who were killed just like that every day? Was Patrick so special that he deserved to live? He sure didn’t think so, he could think of at least twenty people who deserved a second chance way more than him.  
  
He was interrupted in these thoughts by the nurse coming in. He rolled onto his back and sat up to see which one it was. Now that he wasn’t on the ICU floor, he seemed to be getting younger and more inexperienced nurses for his care. There were four of them who alternated from day to day.

And the one in question was a chubby brunette girl who looked about twelve but was probably twenty. She was constantly singing or humming to herself, and Patrick couldn’t decide if it was cute or annoying.

The one thing he did like about her though was she didn't ask him stupid questions. Others would ask things like, “Are you okay?” Or “Do you wanna talk about it?” Like they were his friends. This one didn't bother. Patrick wasn't sure but he thought her name was Kitty.

She came over and took his vitals, then asked, “How’s your pain scale this morning?” She had a slight Southern drawl, Patrick wasn't sure how he'd missed that before. 

He wrote 7 on the board.

“That's good, I know we lowered your dosage yesterday. It's probably hurting more than usual with the drugs getting out of your system. But if it's a seven and not a nine that’s great progress.” She began taking down his IV bag and was humming again.

Patrick didn't recognize the song, so he wrote on the board asking what it was.

She stared for a minute like she didn't quite understand the question. But then she said, “Oh, sorry. I hum when I'm trying to concentrate, takes me a minute to snap back. It's _City of Jewels_ by Crisis Engine, I was at their show last night.” She was smiling now. “They’re local and just got back from a tour so it was a kind of welcome home party.”

He knew how those kinds of shows could be. A band coming back to their home city would usually go to extremes during the show. Fall Out Boy did all the time. He wrote, ‘What kind of music?”

“They do gothcore kinda stuff with some triphop thrown in. They're really good, you should check them out sometime.” He wasn't so sure about that, and he figured it must have shown on his face when she chuckled. “I know, they sound seriously weird. But they're one of my favorites.”

‘What other bands do you listen to?’ Patrick asked. He figured she must have a very interesting music catalog if a band like that was a favorite.

Kitty kept working on his IV, so he wasn't sure she was going to answer. But then she said, “A lot. I mean I like a little of everything except country music. Had to listen to it too much when I was a kid you know? Mostly local bands and classic rock though, but I’ve heard some more popular stuff too.”

Patrick frowned at that. ‘Like Fall Out Boy?’

She shook her head. “Nah, more like MCR, I like them. Sorry to say, I don't think I’ve ever listened to Fall Out Boy. I know that Angie and Eddie and Jen love your band though.”

Patrick assumed she must mean the other nurses, the ones who were so buddy buddy with him. ‘Are they disappointed?’

“Nuh uh,” Kitty told him, finished with her work. She went to wash her hands, and came back, saying, “They're real sad for you, and worried. But they're not disappointed. They're honestly just so damned happy you're alive, but they won't say so because we’re all on the clock here y’know? We’ve got a job to do,”

‘Have they told anyone about me?’ Patrick wrote.

She shook her head. “Oh hell no. There’s laws that stop us from saying anything. We can’t tell anyone we’re treating you or we’ll get fined and maybe locked up. Not to mention, y'know, fired. Heck, no one working on this floor can even glance at your chart or look in on you unless they’ve been assigned to you. It’s pretty serious.” She shoved her hands in the pockets of her scrubs. “You need anything before I go?”

Patrick shook his head and Kitty smiled and left. That was one worry off Patrick’s mind at least. He knew the news about what happened got out. But he didn't want anyone to know what kind of condition he was in, at least not yet. He needed to think of what he was going to say. Or write, to be more specific.

He turned over again, this time facing away from the window. It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining, and he was still alive. It did not comfort him.


	7. Television

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! So I have some news, and I hope you guys will forgive me. But I'm working on a deadline to submit to publication. Therefore, for the time being, I won't be writing this story until that's done. Don't be afraid I still have a few chapters left which I will continue to post. Once they run out, then that's it until my original work is finished. Now for the real reason you're here. I present... Further angst!

Patrick was having his “quiet time” and hating every minute of it. According to the doctor, it was essential to his healing process. The doctor seemed to feel Patrick was spending too much time with his friends. "Not enough time sleeping and resting." Patrick was spending more time on his own anyway, who needed quiet time?

He found it much easier to keep his mind off of things when they were around. It might have been a good thing in the end. But now he couldn’t; he was “under orders” to sleep, but he didn’t want to sleep, not again. He was having horrible and vivid dreams. Patrick had asked the doctor about it but he'd been dismissive. "Nothing more than a medication side effect."

He wanted his laptop or his guitar. A pen and paper even, so he could write out the notes in his head. Patrick had some music in his head he wanted to get out. The hospital staff would sooner give him more pain pills than let him work. Joe, being his best friend, was sneaking in Patrick’s laptop that afternoon. Pete hadn’t liked the idea. Patrick insisted; he hated sitting idle.

At the moment, Patrick had the TV on, just for some background noise. He wasn’t paying attention to the program until he heard the music. Fall Out Boy music. Patrick’s gaze looked up just in time to see it was a clip from America’s Suitehearts. The picture faded out and a perky blonde smiled out at him from the screen. She was wearing clothes a decade too young for her. And her hair was so blonde it was white. It made her salon tan look much darker.

“Welcome to another episode of Total Hollywood News, I’m Kaydence Cleary!” She was aggressively cheerful, Patrick wasn’t sure he liked her. “Today on THN, we’re covering Fall Out Boy! We have new information on the attempted murderer. We have coverage controversial decision that the band’s label has made. And a real treat! An exclusive insight into Patrick Stump’s love life! We'll be interview Mark Sanderson!”

Patrick knew he should turn it off. There was nothing to gain from watching a trashy gossip rag TV show. Especially not one that was going to be about his band. Patrick couldn’t help himself. He was almost completely cut off from the outside world. Pete, Joe, and Andy wouldn’t tell him about what was going on. Not that Patrick had tried very hard. Though, any time he brought it up, they would change the subject. Or that someone else was handling it.

And Patrick could admit to himself he wanted to see what Mark would say.

A montage video started. The music playing over it sounded like typical 80’s hair metal. Kaydence, the host, was talking. “It all started in 1984. Metal Mike Meegan, birth name Michael Hertzog, came to Hollywood to pursue his dream of being a rock star.” There were close-ups of Mike, and Patrick winced. Were they serious? Were they trying to make his would-be murderer sympathetic?

A man Patrick didn’t know appeared on the screen. Judging from his big hair and the dagger earring he wore, Patrick guessed he was one of Mike’s bandmates. He was proven right when the title card introduced him as Deadly Derek Dugan. Lead singer and bassist for 666 Academy. Patrick rolled his eyes.

“Mike was on it, you know? He knew we were gonna be big, the next Black Sabbath. We all thought that. Then the 80s were over, and all these kids are on the scene wearing plaid shirts and singing about heartbreak. No one wanted songs about the Devil and doing drugs. And I said, hey, we gotta change with the times. But he said no, we had a sound, we had a following. And we did, for a few years. We were never famous you know? But people knew us and our fans were LOYAL.”

The camera cut away from Dugan and showed a montage of photos from the 80s and 90s. Lots of pretty girls in heavy makeup and black leather clothing. “Indeed, they never achieved the fame of their contemporaries. However, 666 Academy has been a fixture in Hollywood since 1987. They had a cult following of fans who called themselves the Triple Six Cadets. They promoted the band, as well as supported them at every turn. But as the years went on, the fans moved on. Until there were less than ten people turning out for shows. And then they stopped coming all together.”

The camera cut back to Derek, who looked sad. It was pissing Patrick off.

“There were fewer and fewer gigs. We never made it, and Mike couldn’t accept it you know? Just couldn’t let it go. I knew it was over when Marla called. She was the president of the fan club, and she said she was quitting. She got married and was moving to Portland to make jewelry. We haven’t booked a gig since then. And Mike… He was so damned bitter about it. So bitter, because he was good you know? And no one could see it, or at least that’s what he thought.”

Another montage started, this time of more pictures of Mike, working backstage. “And while he didn't feel appreciated, Meegan did have a steady income as a roadie. He was an experienced guitar player and often did technical work while on tour with other bands. Bands that were not his own.”

Now it was back on Derek, and here he looked embarrassed. “He kept raging on that no one appreciated us. But he was the only one who felt that way! Me and Harley had moved on. I've been teaching, Harls had opened a record store. Tim quit way back in ‘92. I don't even know what he's doing anymore, haven't heard from him in years. We lost Chris a few years ago when he OD’d on heroin. And the whole time Mike was trying to keep the band together. But I told him, right before he left this last time, it’s over. He wants to keep 666 Academy alive he's on his own because me and Harls are done.”

That made Patrick pause. During Mike’s rant at him, he didn't mention his band broke up. If Mike hadn't tried to kill him and ruin his life, he might feel sorry for him. The rest of the segment went on, but Patrick tuned it out. It was more of the same. Man doesn't make it to fortune and fame and can’t accept it. Patrick’s heard stories like that before, everyone does in the entertainment industry. But it wasn't an excuse to hurt people.

He was grateful when the program went to commercial. He considered turning the TV off. Or at least change the channel. But he couldn't bring himself to. He was hooked now and wanted to hear the rest. When they returned, Kaydence was grinning at the camera as she introduced the next segment.

There was video from a press conference. Patrick recognized the A&R rep from Island. He had a statement ready but looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. He cleared his throat.

“We have considered the circumstances surrounding the attack on Patrick Stump. In light of this, Island Records has placed Fall Out Boy on hiatus.” There were shouts, and many people asking questions, but the rep ignored them. “Mr. Stump does remain in stable condition, and I've received reports he is recovering. However, we don't feel it’s in the best interest of the band to continue. All tickets will be refunded. Press events will be rescheduled until such time as deemed appropriate to resume.”

That was a blow. Why hadn't Pete told him? Patrick, of course, knew he wouldn't be in condition to sing, not for a long while if ever again. But that the label had decided to completely suspend Fall Out Boy? It didn't seem right. Patrick wasn't replaceable, he knew that. But he also knew that there were seven or eight different artists who could fill in for him until he got back on his feet.

Patrick didn’t know how to feel about that. It seemed almost impossible that Fall Out Boy would just… Stop. Part of him though was secretly happy. He’d been wanting a break for ages, he’d been in this band since he was in high school. But that didn’t mean he wanted it at the expense of everyone else. Pete especially; Fall Out Boy was his life.

The show was at commercial again. And Patrick tried to prepare himself. He had no idea what Mark would say to the press. He hoped that whatever it was, it wasn’t horrible. He’d read the letter Mark left over and over, trying to figure out what he’d done wrong. But it was simple; they were two very different people. Mark wasn’t who Patrick thought he was. In turn, Patrick was definitely not who Mark had pictured. A rock star who was out every night living it up. Patrick was a homebody who liked to watch tv and work on music. A disappointment to Mark.

It still sounded like a stupid reason to break up. Patrick knew he would be bitter about it for the rest of his life.

The show came back on. Kaydence the Ever Perky was back on screen, smiling out at him. “Welcome back to THN. We’re here with Mark Sanderson! An entrepreneur and model. And until recently the boyfriend of Patrick Stump.”

The camera cut to Mark, and there he was. Beautiful as ever and dressed in impeccable shabby chic. Patrick gripped the remote hard.

“Thanks for joining us today,” she said, and he smiled at her.

“Thank you for having me.” He replied. His curls fell in his eyes when he nodded his head, and he brushed them away.

“So, first things first,” said Kaydence. “How are you? I know you’ve been getting death threats.”

Mark nodded again, as though he were hurting. “I’m doing okay, I guess. I have been getting threats; I’ve pretty much stopped using Twitter because of it. I don’t blame them though, not at all. They’re upset and I’m a convenient target. Patrick, of course, would never want that. He’s such a good person. Too good.”

“Bit of a goody two shoes?” Kaydence asked with a giggle, and Mark laughed.

“Yeah, a bit. But he’s a wonderful guy.”

“So tell me, why break up now?” She asked. Patrick could see a gleam in her eye, as though she were expecting a juicy bit of gossip. It made Patrick's stomach turn.

“Because it’s best for both of us,” Mark replied. He looked pained. “We’ve been drifting apart for some time. Now that this has happened, I can’t be the support he needs. He needs his friends and his family. He doesn’t need me hanging around and making things worse. I think that’s why he dumped me.”

Patrick sat up and tried to scream. He wanted to yell that Mark was a liar. Instead, he hurt his throat, and Patrick collapsed back against the bed.

“You’re telling me HE dumped YOU?” She said, feigning shock. Patrick thought she was a terrible actress.

“Yes,” Mark was still putting on the airs of the injured party. “I feel like I failed him. I couldn’t be there when he was hurt. I was supposed to be on the tour. But I had an insane shooting schedule and the new campaign with Valentino, I couldn’t make it. Maybe if I’d been there…” He sighed, and his eyes were tearing up. Patrick thought he might vomit.

“And what about the allegations that Pete Wentz has levied against you?” Kaydence asked. There was a wicked smile on her face.

“Pete’s always been a reactionary kind of person,” Mark replied. He was wiping at his eyes. “He’s trying to protect his best friend.”

“As you know, he went on a Twitter rant about you recently,” Kaydence said. She leaned forward, a conspiratorial smile on her face. “There are rumors that he was the reason you and Patrick split up.”

Mark sighed again, as though he were too good for such banal talk. Patrick wasn’t sure how he could have missed it before. Mark was an incredible actor. “I’d heard much the same. But there’s nothing going on between Pete and Patrick. At least not that I know of.”

Kaydence looked disappointed but didn’t press the issue. “If you could say anything to Patrick right now, what would it be?”

At this, Mark looked at the camera. “I’d say… I’m sorry. I’m really, truly sorry I couldn’t be who you needed. I hope that you can find happiness in the future.”

Disgusted, Patrick turned the TV off and threw the remote across the room.


	8. Evaluation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are again! If anyone's wondering, the story I'm writing for publication is really weird and I kind of love it. I'm hoping to get it finished in the next week or two! There will still likely be a delay in posting as this story is still unfinished. I may have also gotten a terrible idea for additional chapters. So the bad news, story going on hiatus. Good news, more chapters and DRAMA! I'll let you know what happens and if you have any questions don't hesitate to comment here or send me an ask on Tumblr. Okay let's get this going.

Patrick was pushing his vegetables around his plate, not feeling particularly hungry. He could eat solid foods again, which he supposed meant that he was close to being discharged. The stitches were removed long ago, and he had energy but still quite a bit of pain. The doctor had said that his vocal cords were healing well. And he should be able to speak soon without fear of further damage.

Dr. Quaid had scolded him over the incident with the TV. He reminded Patrick that every attempt to use his voice would further damage it. He also said it could also have long-term consequences. Patrick felt like a child, both because of the scolding and because he knew the doctor was right. He apologized and said that he would do better in the future. And Patrick meant it.

He was still having trouble coping, but he wanted to get back to his old life. And he couldn’t do that if he couldn’t sing anymore. Patrick had never defined himself by his voice, but it was the one thing that made people listen. He could play a dozen instruments and write music for every one of them. But his voice… That was what made people sit up and pay attention.

Though what worried him most were his plans. He still wanted to work on his solo music, and he didn’t know how Pete would react. Patrick knew that Pete would cling tighter than ever, and if he did then he’d never let Patrick go. He didn’t want his entire musical career and identity hinging on Pete Wentz. He needed independence.

Which was why he’d asked for some alone time again. Pete wasn’t raising a fuss yet, but Patrick knew it was a matter of time. He also knew that Joe and Andy would support him, as they had solo projects of their own to work on. They’d been talking about a break after the tour, a longer one than usual. Patrick referred to it as a hiatus and only mentioned it to Pete one time. The reaction had… Not been promising.

He was still trying to think of a way to bring it up again when the door opened. Someone that Patrick hadn’t seen before came in. He was a small man, with silver blonde hair and blue eyes. He wasn’t much taller than Patrick and had a medium build. He was older, like Dr. Quaid, but not as dour looking.

“Good morning,” he said. “I’m Dr. Ian Morten.” To Patrick’s surprise, the doctor had an English accent.

Patrick waved a bit. He’d met several doctors over the past few weeks, another one was nothing new. But this one wasn’t wearing a lab coat and a tie. Instead, he wore khakis, a cardigan, and a button-down shirt. He sat down in one of the chairs and said, “I’m a therapist, I’ve been asked by your doctor and your family to speak with you today.”

That made Patrick balk. He scrambled for his board, and wrote, ‘Why?’

Dr. Morten, he realized, had a clipboard with him. He drew a pen out of his pocket and said, “Because you’ve gone through a very traumatic experience. You’re healing physically, but there are worries about your emotional state. I'm told you haven’t been talking much.”

He glared at Dr. Morten, gesturing to his throat.

“I apologize, let me rephrase. They say that you haven’t confided in them about how you’re feeling. Your friend Pete has said that you’re not a particularly verbal person anyway, as has your mother. But they are worried.”

Patrick wasn’t sure what to say to that. Did he point out that his mother was busy having an emotional breakdown? Or that he didn’t think Pete could handle how he was really feeling? Patrick didn’t dare tell anyone, he couldn’t. Yes, he hurt, and yes, he was weak. But he wouldn’t let his friends and family bear this burden.

‘I don’t have anything to confide,’ Patrick wrote.

Dr. Morten fixed him with a look, one that said he didn’t believe Patrick. For a moment, he reminded Patrick of Andy. “It can be hard to talk about these things. And it’s fine if you don’t want to talk to me. However, I’m here to evaluate you. Answer a few questions, and I won’t take up any more of your time.”

He wasn’t so sure about that. He asked, ‘Why?’

“It’s part of the terms of your release,” said Dr. Morten.

Patrick would have cursed if he could. This was definitely Dr. Quaid’s doing. And he’d been stupid enough to believe Quaid would keep his mouth shut about the news program.

“Look,” Dr. Morten said, drawing Patrick out of his thoughts. “You don’t have to confide in me, not if you don’t want to. But you should speak with someone, it will do you good in the long term.”

‘Just tell me what you want to hear,’ Patrick wrote. He ran out of room on the board, so he had to erase and then write. ‘Then get out.’

He didn’t seem to be the least bit perturbed. Instead, he looked at his clipboard and began. “Are you experiencing any disturbing thoughts or images of the incident?”

‘No.’ Patrick didn’t feel the need to add the reason. He thought if he kept his answers short, he could get out of this without the doctor thinking Patrick was crazy.

“Are you experiencing any stressful dreams?”

‘Yes.’ The entire floor knew that Patrick was having nightmares. It hadn't endeared Patrick to the other patients, but that wasn't his concern. He couldn't control his dreams.

“Do you suddenly feel as though you are under stress, or as though the incident was happening again?”

‘No.’

“Do you become upset when someone reminds you of the incident?”

‘No.’ But then again, no one had mentioned it since the first couple of days. At least not in Patrick’s presence.

“Are you having any physical reactions when someone reminds you of the incident?”

‘No.’ He was lying. He was thinking about it now, and it was making his heart pound. Mike standing in front of him... Patrick closed his eyes and told himself to focus. He could fool this guy, he had to if he wanted out.

But the doctor seemed to be on to him. His next question was, “Are you avoiding thinking about or talking about the incident?”

He was staring at Patrick now, and Patrick hesitated. He hung his head and wrote on the board, ‘Yes’.

“Are you having trouble remembering parts of the incident?”

‘No.’ It was still clear in his mind, which was why it was so damned difficult to avoid thinking about it.

“Are you feeling distant or cut off from others?”

That did hit home. His eyes widened in surprise, and he knew that Dr. Morten had seen the look on his face. He wanted to ask how Dr. Morten had known. Patrick reminded himself that was part of the reason he was having this evaluation. He’d sent his friends and family away more than once during his month in the hospital. ‘Yes.’

“Are you feeling emotionally numb?”

‘Yes.’ This was making Patrick uncomfortable now. How many more questions did this doctor have?

“Are you having trouble falling asleep?”

‘No.’ But that was because of the medication. He wouldn’t even try to sleep, not until the evenings when the nurses would dope him up.

Dr. Morten was working down more of the list. But he frowned a bit and said, “Most of these questions won’t apply until you’re out of the hospital. I’ll be skipping this section. Are you feeling extra alert, or super on guard?”

‘No.’ But now that Dr. Morten had asked, Patrick wondered if maybe he should be. After all, Mike’s bandmate had been on TV, defending Mike. Or at least that was how it looked to Patrick. And the news program had mentioned that they had die-hard fans. Who knew what they were capable of? Patrick shut the thought down. He would worry about it later.

“Are you having trouble concentrating?”

‘Yes,’ he admitted. It wasn’t as though that was hard to figure out. He’d been pausing so long in his answers he was surprised Dr. Morten didn’t get impatient. Though he was a therapist, Patrick figured he was used to it.

“Are you finding that you’re jumpy or easily startled?”

‘No.’

There were a few more questions, of the variety Patrick had expected. Less “are you all right?” and more “you’re not hallucinating or think you’re Jesus, do you?” It felt like forever, but in the end, the doctor seemed satisfied.

After Patrick answered his last question, Dr. Morten nodded and put his pen away. He said to Patrick, “I’ll be speaking with Dr. Quaid. I think it would be good for you if you were able to return home. Get back on solid ground, so to speak. But I strongly suggest that you speak with a professional once you’re settled in. If you have any questions, feel free to phone me anytime. I’ll be including my card with your discharge paperwork.”

He turned to go, but Patrick gestured to get his attention, so he stopped. He wrote, ‘Does that mean I’m out of here?’

For the first time, he smiled. It was actually a very pleasant smile, Patrick thought. “It does, Mr. Stump. Really, call me. Any time you like.” And Dr. Morten left the room.

Patrick felt relief wash over him. Finally, he was going home.


	9. Discharge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, welcome to another update! 
> 
> Extra content warning for this chapter, it describes more graphic violence. 
> 
> Anyway... Writing is going well for the publication project, and I'm nearly finished with it. So, hopefully, I can return to this story and finish it once and for all. Remember though, there are just two more chapter updates after this one then it's hiatus time. 
> 
> Enjoy

  
Hemingway App makes your writing bold and clear.

“Man I never thought I’d be so fucking happy to see this place,” said Pete as they walked up the steps. Patrick hadn’t spoken since they got on the flight.

The discharge from the hospital was a pain. Dr. Quaid had a very intimidating set of instructions laid out for Patrick. He’d also been informed by Dr. Morten that Chicago was actually where he had his practice. And that he’d been flown out by Pete. He was encouraged to make an appointment, but not required to. Patrick would have thrown his card away if he thought he could get away with it.

His family had left for Chicago two days before Patrick did. His Mom saying she wanted to make sure his house was ready for him. As they reached his door, Patrick stopped for a minute. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go in there. He was still so lethargic from actually being out and about.

He followed Pete inside. He wasn’t the least bit surprised to see that he had company.  
  
Practically all the Fueled by Ramen crew was there, and then some. People were smiling, and Patrick thought that Hayley might have been crying. His mother certainly was, and she pulled Patrick into a hug and welcomed him home. He did his best to hold still, instead of pulling away like he wanted to. But then, a hand clasped his shoulder and he heard someone say, “Okay Mama Stump, time’s up. Yo! Everyone else who wants to hug Patrick, form a line behind me! You can have him when I’m done!”  
  
“Hey fuck you!” Pete said, but he was laughing as he shoved Gabe.  
  
“Pete! Not in front of Patrick’s mom!” He said, acting scandalized. “What would she think of us?”  
  
But his mom was laughing, and she had finally released Patrick.  
  
Gabe towered over him, and he was smiling in a way that looked odd. Patrick realized Gabe was trying to keep from crying. Gabe hugged Patrick and mumbled, “I’m so happy you’re okay, you have no idea. We've all been worried sick.”  
  
Then it was Travie’s turn, who had no qualms about shoving Gabe out of the way. He hugged Patrick too, but much more gently than his mother or Gabe had done. As though he were afraid that he would hurt Patrick by touching him too much. “Welcome home P-Steezy.”  
  
After that, it was a whirlwind. Patrick wanted to go to his room and be alone. But it seemed everyone he knew was jammed into his apartment and wanted to take the time to talk to him. Mostly what they wanted to talk about was how they’d been frightened, and how this had affected them. All the while Pete hovered at his side like he was afraid to let Patrick out of his sight.  
  
Brendon was tearfully telling him that he felt he’d always taken Patrick for granted. That was when Patrick had enough. He held his hand up so Brendon would stop talking. He wanted to be gracious, and understanding, and everything people expected. And that was going to be difficult when he was so damned angry.  
  
Patrick gestured to Pete, who jumped up on the couch and yelled, “HEY! Everyone shut up! Patrick wants to say something!”  
  
“I thought you couldn’t talk?” Brendon said.  
  
“He’s supposed to take it easy on talking, totally a different thing,” said Joe.  
  
Everyone gathered around, and for a minute, Patrick wasn’t sure he could talk if he tried. He’d been silent for over a month, how could he be expected to speak up now? But surrounded by the eager yet pained faces of his friends and colleagues, he couldn’t stay quiet. It took a couple tries, as his throat tried to remember how to make sound. But finally, Patrick was able to speak.  
  
“Thank you, you guys. Thanks for being here.” He winced at the sound of his own voice. It was scratchy and sounded almost hollow. It felt like two pieces of sandpaper were being ground together as he talked. “I appreciate you guys taking the time to come down and welcome me home. But I’m really tired and kind of want to go to sleep now.”  
  
“Yeah, hey that’s understandable,” Pete said. He hugged Patrick, then said, “All right guys let’s clear out.”

He had to do more rounds, more hugs, and tears, and people telling him how happy they were he was all right. How could he tell them the truth?

Before he knew it, Patrick found himself in his bedroom. He’d managed to get Pete out of his hair but was in the guest room. He’d volunteered to stay with Patrick for a bit, in case he needed anything. Patrick had been a little annoyed at first, but he was happy to be home again. It was different from the hospital, as this was a familiar space. For the first time in months, he actually felt safe.

Patrick curled up under the blankets, hugging a pillow. He was crying but trying to keep himself as quiet as possible, as he didn’t want to wake up Pete. He didn’t want to hurt them, but he couldn’t hold it in anymore. Every bit of worry, pain, and depression came flooding back.

Why was he crying now? He was safe in his own home, wasn’t he?

He ended up crying himself to sleep, and his dreams were disturbing. But something about being home made them much more clear, and he could remember them.

It started out simply. A typical weird dream about playing a piano that would giggle when he would touch certain keys. Nothing unusual in that…

But the scene changed. It was cold and dark, and Patrick could feel asphalt under his feet. He was surrounded by trailers. But instead of the professional setup from the tour, they looked grotesque. They were battered, falling apart, and some of them Patrick could have sworn he saw eyes staring out at him. The trailers were surrounded by scraggly black trees, like something out of a Tim Burton movie.

He could hear leaves rustling, and he shivered. Why was it so cold?

Patrick heard footsteps, and it made his heart race. He knew he was dreaming and he wanted to wake up. He wouldn’t wake up, even though he kept telling himself that it wasn’t real. Patrick realized he could still feel his body, his real body, and he couldn’t move. He was completely paralyzed, and what was worse, he could feel that he wasn’t breathing.

“Please, stop,” Patrick whispered. But the dream, which he now knew was a nightmare, continued.

There was something sticky that was dripping on him. Patrick looked up and saw something that rocked him to the very core He was shaking but rooted to the spot. He was too terrified to even scream.

Patrick saw himself, or rather, his corpse. His clothes were torn, he was covered in blood, which sluggishly dripped from open wounds. His eyes were open and lifeless, his mouth fixed in a soundless scream. He was bound to the tree by barbed wire, hanging from its branches like a grotesque marionette. And there, sticking out of his throat, was the knife that Mike had used.

Hands grabbed Patrick by the shoulders, he couldn’t see the person but he knew who it was. “Please don’t,” he sobbed. But he felt it, that burning sharp pain. He could see the blood pouring down the front of his body, over his hands, splashing on the pavement. He could hear weeping in the distance.

He turned to his attacker, but it wasn’t Mike. It was Pete!

Pete was holding up a knife, twirling it through his fingers. He thrust the knife into Patrick’s stomach, saying, “Love you, Pattycakes.” The blood didn’t stop flowing, and Pete dipped his hands into it. He smeared it on his face and grinned at Patrick before licking it off his fingers.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Patrick screamed, his whole body jolting. He was awake.

Patrick was crying, finally able to move. He pulled the blankets tighter around himself, trying to get his breathing under control. He rolled over and grabbed his inhaler from the side table. It took a few tries, but he was able to finally able to inhale the medicine.

The bedroom door opened, which made Patrick jump. Pete flipped on the light and walked in, asking, “Patrick are you okay?”

He shook his head but didn’t answer. His throat was raw from the scream, and he didn’t want to risk making it worse. Pete sat on the edge of the bed, asking, “How can I help?”

“Don’t leave,” Patrick managed to say. He was crying again, he’d been doing that a lot lately, and he hated it. It made him feel weak. But instead of teasing him, or giving him shit about it, Pete simply shrugged and told Patrick to scoot over.

“You want the light on?” Pete asked, but Patrick shook his head. Pete got up again and turned it off, then crawled into bed with Patrick. “You wanna spoon?”

“Shut up,” he said but didn’t stop Pete when he curled around Patrick.


	10. Second Interview

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I know this is a late update, but I've been very busy today. I have some good news and bad news. The bad news is, I will not be posting the final completed chapter on April 1st. I'll be starting Camp NaNoWriMo, as I've decided to sign up for Bandom Big Bang 2018. If anyone else is interested in doing so, you can check it out [here](https://bandombigbang.dreamwidth.org/). We always need writers, artists, podficcers, mixers, and various other kinds of creators. So if you enjoy creating fandom works, more specifically bandom works, consider Bandom Big Bang. Sign ups begin March 20th 2018. Please remember to read the schedule, rules, and FAQ and if any questions you have aren't covered by it, don't hesitate to contact the mods. 
> 
> Secondly, the good news is I've actually finished my original work and have submitted it for publication. So once I've finished the second draft of my BBB, I will be returning to this story so I can finish it off for good. Again, I apologize for starting the hiatus early and hope that you understand I've got rather a lot on my plate right now.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I'll see you on the other side.

Patrick didn’t want to get up. He didn’t want to get dressed. He didn’t want to see the detectives again. Especially not after last time. But he’d  been told by   the lawyer that he had to. And she would stop any questioning that was inappropriate or unrelated to the case. That didn’t make Patrick feel any better.   However , there was something different this time.

This time, Pete  was allowed  to sit in on the interview.

Even Patrick had to admit, that  probably  wasn’t the best idea. Pete was reactionary, and had a tendency to say exactly how he felt. Patrick didn’t give a damn. He wanted Pete there, if only to hold his hand. At least in a metaphorical sense.

The interview would be taking place at the lawyer’s office, with the understanding it was to be the last one. Kim had informed him that forensics backed up Patrick’s version of events. That the police and district attorney wanted to speak with him to confirm some things. He’d  been told  the homophobic asshole from before wouldn’t be there, which was a relief.

He got up when he heard the doorbell, and Pete smiled at him. “Hey. Ready?”

“I guess,” Patrick replied, and followed him out to the car.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Pete was saying as they got in. He started the engine and added, “ Really , it’s fine. Kim said they sent Detective Watson.”

“Addy?”

“Yeah. I guess she ripped into that partner of hers pretty hard for that bullshit he pulled. Kim says she’s apologized like a hundred million times and it’s super annoying.”

Patrick snorted at that. It didn’t make much of a difference to him, he still didn’t want to go. He stared out the window at the passing buildings, wondering if he could disappear. Close his eyes and fade away forever, so he wouldn’t have to do this. It wasn’t even that he was afraid of reliving it anymore. No, he was doing that enough in his sleep.

It was that he wanted to put it behind him, and he didn’t think he could do that if he kept having to talk about it. How was it supposed to help? He’d already gotten a few not so subtle hints from his mother about talking to that shrink. Patrick would make an excuse about his throat hurting too  badly . And then she would change the subject. Patrick knew that excuse wouldn’t last forever, but in the meantime he’d milk it for all it was worth.

His life was settling into static. Patrick was still in too much pain to do much of anything. His routine was  fairly   simple. Wake up whenever he needed to use the bathroom, grab some pills and water from the kitchen and   maybe   a few snacks. Then it was back to bed for a few hours. Sometimes he would read or watch TV, but   mostly  he would lie there. He’d fall back asleep, and it was usually a light doze. Then he’d wake from a nightmare and the whole process would start again.

 Mostly   it was vague nightmares of   being chased  , or hiding but unable to get away from a faceless threat. But on occasion, he’d have nightmares   just  as bad or even worse than his first night home. The very worst ones, it was Pete who was killing him, not Mike. He would usually torture Patrick first. That was the kind that he’d had that morning, and it hadn’t been easy to deal with. Seeing Pete at the door had somehow made it worse.

 He didn’t register that the car had stopped until he realized that Pete was talking.  Loudly , at that. Patrick looked at him and said, “What?”

“I said we’re here,” Pete replied, frowning at Patrick. Concern  was written  all over his face. “Are you sure you’re up to this? You don’t have to do the interview if you don’t want to.”

It was tempting. Patrick knew Pete would turn around and take him straight home if he asked. But he reasoned, then he’d have to do this again. Or worse, the police would come to his home. He  was exhausted  , mentally and   physically . But he knew he wouldn’t be able to do this again. He’d already pulled together enough to dress and leave the house. Even with Pete’s support he wouldn’t pull that off a second time. So he shook his head and mumbled, “I’m fine.” And got out of the car.

Before he knew it, they found themselves in a conference room. Jake was handing coffee out, while Addy and Kim were talking in hushed voices. They looked up when Patrick came in, and Kim went right to Patrick’s side. “Good morning, please, have a seat,” she said.

Patrick let her direct him, and he  was seated  on one side of the conference table with Kim and Pete. On the other was Addy, still in head to toe black. With her was a man that Pete didn’t recognize.

“I’d like to start off by apologizing again for Detective McCullough’s behavior. He’s  been suspended   without pay pending an investigation. I don’t know that there are words to   properly   make up for it.   But rest assured the opinions of myself and my superior officers are that this attack   was unprovoked  ,” said Addy .

“What a relief,” Pete said, tone dripping with sarcasm.

Addy chose to ignore him, and gestured to the man sitting next to her. “This is our ADA liaison Bert Hammond. He’s going to be recording this interview for the DA’s office. We don’t want to cause you any more trouble.”

“Is his written statement going to be enough?” Kim asked, looking at Hammond. “He’s been through quite a lot as it is.”

“We’d prefer to have both a spoken and written statement so  as to  cover all bases,” Hammond replied.

Pete  gently  squeezed Patrick’s shoulder, and muttered, “Are you up to this?”

Patrick looked at each of them in turn, and  lastly   at Pete. His first impulse was to get up and leave. Go home, and sink back into the cocoon of his bedroom. Again, he thought of that relative peace   being disturbed by  having to come to this place again. The room was a bit cold, and despite everything, he didn’t trust anyone in it except Pete. And even that was iffy, because of the nightmares.

He took a deep breath, then said, “Okay.”

And so for two and a half hours, Patrick answered questions from Addy and Hammond. They went over everything; his movements for the previous three days. What little he’d known of Mike, and the night itself. Pete,  remarkably , kept his mouth shut. But sometimes, when Patrick was struggling, he would hold his hand and squeeze it. Jake fetched cup after cup of tea, as Patrick’s throat was starting to hurt.

When at last it was over, Patrick looked at Addy. “Can I ask a question?”

“Absolutely,” she replied, putting her notebook away.

“I uh… I saw on the news, that he had some bandmates. Did you-- That is, uh, did you…” He couldn’t make himself ask.

“We interviewed them,” Addy replied. “They didn’t know he was planning anything like this.”

“How are they doing?” He asked.

Pete raised an eyebrow, and it looked like he was about to say something. But Patrick shot him a look, and Pete kept his mouth shut.

“They’re upset,  understandably ,” she told him. “But they’re not angry with you if that’s what you were wondering.”

“Actually they’re terrified you’re going to sue them,” Kim added and Patrick turned to look at her.

“Why the hell would they think that?” Pete asked in surprise.

“A case could  be made  that they knew of Mike’s volatile nature and didn’t alert the authorities,” she said.

“But we’re not, right? We’re not suing them?” Patrick asked.

Kim sighed. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“Good.”

“I should make you aware though, they are turning a profit on this.” She twisted her lips, as though she’d  just  tasted something sour. “It’s brought them some infamy. 666 Academy shirts, CDs, what have you, is selling out faster than they can produce merchandise.”

It didn’t surprise him. People loved the macabre, and this was about as macabre as it got. Patrick couldn’t help wondering how many of their own fans were buying that merch. With the way they’d reacted to Folie,  maybe  about half.

“What?! Are you--” Pete started to yell, but Patrick shook his head.

“They’re not responsible for people being gross.  Just  leave them alone.”

Pete looked ready to argue, but he dropped it. They talked a little more with the detective and district attorney, and finally, it  was done  . Patrick never had to see either of them again. He didn’t remember saying goodbye, or getting back in the car. He was so consumed with his thoughts, he   was startled  when Pete asked him, “What do you wanna eat?”

 He looked up to see they were at one of their old haunts, a dingy diner they used to come to when Patrick was still a teenager. Had he  really  been that zoned out? The waitress was giving him an annoyed look, and it made Patrick cringe.

“Uh… Coffee. And pancakes."

Pete gave the menus back to the waitress, and he leaned forward. “Okay, what’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Patrick mumbled. He had grabbed a few napkins out of the dispenser on the table, and proceeded to shred them one by one.

“Bullshit. Come on Trick, you can tell me.”

“It’s  really   nothing,” Patrick replied. The waitress was back, and she put their mugs down   carelessly  before walking off. Some of the coffee had splashed on the table. Patrick could see there were stains everywhere on the formica. How had he never noticed that before? He soaked up the coffee with the shredded napkins, then got up saying he needed to use the restroom.

Patrick dumped the wet napkins in the garbage can there, and looked at himself in the mirror.

His skin was sickly white, with circles under his eyes like bruises. He  carefully   removed the scarf from around his neck. The scar on his throat was almost red, and it hurt Patrick to look at it. His thoughts went back to the nightmare. Pete helping Mike… And he thought of the fans as well. People booing them, yelling obscenities any time they played songs from Folie. He’d   just  wanted to try something different, why did they hate that so much? Shouldn’t they be glad it wasn’t the same old Fall Out Boy all the time?

 He hadn’t realized he was crying until his vision blurred, and he took off his glasses to wipe at his eyes.

 When he pulled them back on, Patrick said  quietly   to himself, “  Just   get through this meal. Then go home and sleep on it.” He grabbed a few paper towels and wet them, cleaning his face. He didn’t want Pete to know he’d been crying. Once, he felt he was presentable, he left the bathroom to join Pete. Patrick reminded himself, behave   normally  or Pete might start asking questions again. He couldn’t have that. He couldn’t tell anyone about this, they wouldn’t understand.

They wouldn’t understand that sometimes, more often than not, he wished he had died that night. 


	11. Gabe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! An update! So I finished my story, finished my Bandom Big Bang (which will be posting in the fall, hope you like it), and now I'm working on a book. Now, I won't have this on a regular posting schedule because job/original writing and so on. I just wanted you guys to know this work is not abandoned I'm just super busy.

It was several days later when Gabe came by. Out of all his friends, Gabe Saporta was not the type to want a heart to heart chat. Or at least that had been Patrick’s thinking. But no, Gabe had asked him out to lunch so they could talk. Patrick had refused, saying he didn’t want to leave the house. This was becoming a habit, he knew. Ever since the second interview with Addy, Patrick had stopped going out unless he had to.

Which was  fairly  obvious from his apartment. There were dishes stacked in the sink that hadn’t  been cleaned . Random clutter around the house, and so much stuff on his coffee table he couldn't see it anymore. His bedroom was no better, what with dirty clothes and trash everywhere. Most days, he didn’t even get out of bed. He had food delivered and watched TV, which was pretty much his life.

The nightmares were getting worse, and Patrick didn’t want to talk with anyone about it. His family and friends had been encouraging him to speak with Dr. Morten. Patrick still had his card, but he wouldn’t be calling him. He couldn’t talk about any of this, it was too personal. Which was why he wasn’t looking forward to seeing Gabe. Patrick wasn’t in the mood for more cajoling.

Gabe had offered to bring lunch by so they could hang out. Again, Patrick had refused, but Gabe had pestered and cajoled him until he  eventually  gave in. Which was how Patrick found himself at his own front door, letting Gabe in that afternoon.

“Hey Stumpy,” Gabe said and reached to pull him into a hug. Patrick took a step back and shook his head. Gabe frowned, but he didn’t press the point. “I brought you goodies!”

“What goodies?” Patrick asked. He still sounded raspy. It made him want to stab himself in the ears.

“Lunch,” Gabe said, holding up a couple bags. “And also a present.”

Patrick frowned at him. “What present?”

“Ah, but you must have lunch with me to find out. Come on, I got you some Thai food.”

Gabe trooped into the kitchen, Patrick trailing behind him. Gabe moved around like he owned the place. As he pulled down plates, bowls, and silverware, Patrick had the sudden urge to tell Gabe to leave. How dare he make himself at home? This was Patrick’s home! But he paused, thinking about that for a moment. Why would that matter? Gabe had been over almost as much as Pete, and that was before this whole mess began. It had never bothered him before.

But it was bothering Patrick then, and it took a lot of effort on his part to keep his mouth shut.

“Okay! Lunch  is served  !” Gabe said. He pulled a chair out for Patrick, and once he  was seated , Gabe sat down as well.

They ate in relative silence. Patrick not doing much more than sipping at some coconut broth. He  occasionally  nibbling on some glass noodles. Gabe noticed and while he shot worried looks at Patrick, he didn’t comment. When he’d finished eating, Gabe said, “So you’re  probably  wondering what I’m doing here.”

“You mean why you decided to force your company on me?” Patrick asked, glaring. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.”

“Okay cool your jets,” Gabe said. He began clearing away the food. “Look, you remember a few years back when I had to have my surgery?”

“How could I forget?” Patrick had been part of the stupid Cobra Cam video that Gabe had made about the surgery. It was funny after, but not so much at the time.

“Remember how scared I was? I thought they were gonna botch it and I’d never be able to talk again. Or I’d end up like Julie Andrews and my singing voice would  be fucked  from here to eternity.”

“Yeah, what’s your point?”

“That’s where your gift comes in,” Gabe said. He sat back and touched both his ears. “Your own personal shoulder to cry on.”

Patrick stared at him, and he couldn’t have heard that right. “What?”

“I’ve been where you are,” he pointed out. “I know what it’s like when you’re pretty sure you’re fucked. So anything you need to talk about, I’m available any time.”

He wasn’t sure how to react, and for a moment, Patrick didn’t say anything. But the more he thought about it, the angrier he got. How dare Gabe compare their experiences? They weren’t the same at all! Gabe had a medical condition and had to have an operation, Patrick  was murdered ! It wasn’t even close!

“It’s not the same,” Patrick said, trying to keep himself under control.

“Yeah I mean I know the experience is kinda--”

“It’s not even a little bit similar!” Patrick yelled.

Gabe frowned at him. “I have been there though, I know what it’s like to--”

“What, be fucking murdered?! No, you don’t!” Patrick got up and walked out of the kitchen. Unfortunately, Gabe followed, which  just  pissed him off more. “Fuck off! You don’t know what I’m going through!”

“Not the murder bit, no. But I know what’s going through your head right now.” Gabe stepped closer, staring down at Patrick. “You’re not sure if you’ll be able to sing anymore. And if you can’t sing, where’s that gonna leave you? It feels like that’s all you’ve got, and you’re about to lose it. And if you do then you’re gonna lose everything. Because that’s your identity, you’re Patrick Stump, lead singer of Fall Out Boy. And it fucking terrifies you that you don’t know who you’d be if you weren’t.”

Patrick could feel tears stinging his eyes. It was true, every word of it. Patrick had been living in terror that he’d never get his voice back. His future plans for a solo album, film work, a lot of it would be relying on being Patrick Stump. The singer from Fall Out Boy. It was crushing Patrick, that he might never be able to sing again.

He’d never wanted to be a singer, he wanted to be a drummer. If it hadn’t been for Pete, he might have been and Fall Out Boy would have broken up ages ago. But instead, Pete had put a microphone in his hand and insisted he had a golden voice that needed to  be shared . Patrick had hated the attention at first, but he’d grown into his role. He hadn’t asked for it, but that didn’t mean he wanted it taken away.

He could see that Gabe was waiting for him to speak. For Patrick to acknowledge that Gabe was right and how completely screwed he was. But instead, Patrick pushed him away, saying, “Get the fuck out.”

“I can help you,” Gabe insisted.

“You can’t help because you don’t know shit, now get out of my house!” Patrick yelled, pointing at the door.

Gabe sighed. “Fine, but the offer still stands. You’re gonna need to talk about this at some point, Patrick. Don’t wait too long though, that shit starts to fester in your head pretty quick.”

“Get the fuck out of here, Gabe!” He shouted. He seized a mug that was sitting on the coffee table and threw it at the wall. It shattered above Gabe’s head, and Gabe ducked. He gave Patrick a bewildered look, then walked out the front door. Patrick slammed the door after him and locked it, seething.

But the rage left as fast as it came, and he collapsed to the ground. The tears were falling now, and Patrick hugged himself. He  was filled  with guilt, both for his tantrum and the way he’d treated Gabe. Patrick knew that Gabe was trying to help, a lot of people were. But he couldn’t let them know.

How could he tell them what he was thinking? He’d never been great at talking about his feelings anyway. Now it was even worse because there was a darkness in his thoughts that wouldn’t go away. Something that reason told him wasn’t true, but another part of himself wondered, what if?

What if he had died? What if Mike’s bandmates did decide to finish what their friend had started? What if their fans did once they found out he couldn’t sing? What if he never got his voice back? What if indeed…

He had stopped crying, but he was so exhausted. It took everything he had to stand again. Patrick picked up the shattered pieces of the mug. He tossed them in the overflowing trash can. Patrick dragged himself back to his room and curled up under his blankets. He closed his eyes, hoping he wouldn’t have nightmares if he fell asleep again.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://talkingcinemalight.tumblr.com)


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